Gotcha

Gotcha!

Shelley Hrdlitschka

Text copyright © 2008 Shelley Hrdlitschka
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be
invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hrdlitschka, Shelley, 1956-
Gotcha / Shelley Hrdlitschka.
ISBN 978-1-55143-737-8
I. Title.
PS8565.R44G68 2008       jC813’.54       C2008-900482-5
First published in the United States, 2008
Library of Congress Control Number:
2008921105
Summary: The grade twelve bead-snatching game called Gotcha becomes
dangerous, and Katie finds herself swept away.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through
the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for
the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council
and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover image and design by Teresa Bubela
Text design by Teresa Bubela

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Printed and bound in Canada.

11  10  09  08  •  4  3  2  1

For Cara Lee, with love, always.

Once again, this book would not have been completed without the gentle prodding from my dear friends and fellow writers Beryl Young, Kim Denman and Diane Tullson. Thank you for your wisdom and continued support.

A special thank-you to the students of Seycove Secondary School in North Vancouver, especially the grad classes of ‘04 and ‘06, for inspiring the book and sharing Gotcha (bead game) stories.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: hi

Dear Katie,

Just a quick note to tell you I love you and miss you and hope to see you soon. I know I shouldn’t have left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye, but it was a spur of the moment decision. I guess you knew that your mom and I were having some problems, and we need time apart. Please don’t be mad. Things are looking up for me right now. I’ve had a job interview, and I have a good feeling about this one. I am going to make you proud of me, Katie.

Talk to you soon.

:D/xo

Dad

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: hi

dad, ur right how could i NOT know u were havin problems? i’m sure all the neighbors know 2 unless they’re deaf but i AM mad!!!! u should have taken me with u! ur not the only 1 she nags 2 death u know. without u here she’s got twice as much time to rag on me. thanx a lot for that.

Katie

and where are u N E way???

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: RE: hi

Katie,

Please don’t talk about your mom that way. She’s doing the best she can. And you’re pretty much an adult now, so I know you can handle this.

Love you lots,

Dad

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: hi

ur full of it dad! im 17 not old enough 2 vote or drink (legally). if im not mature enuf 2 do those things, what makes u think im mature enuf 2 handle my parents splitting? u + mom may need time apart (thats what all divorcing parents tell their kids) but what about me? maybe i need a break from her 2! would it be ok with u if i run away in the middle of the night? would u think thats a mature way 2 handle my problems? u didnt just leave mom u left me. ur the grownup couldnt u have tried harder 2 keep r family together? i think if u loved me enuf that would have been your top priority. and u didn’t tell me where u r.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: hi

Katie,

You have it wrong. I’ve got stuff to sort out, and I can’t do it under the watchful eye of your mom. We each have our own lives to lead. I may be living apart from you for a while, but I love you as much as ever. It won’t be long before you move
away to go to school or work. Does that mean we won’t still be a family? We’ll get through this rough patch. You’ll see.

xo

Dad

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: hi

ya right.u think u’ve got stuff to sort out? what about me! it’s hard enuf being in grade 12, w/ exams coming up + every1 asking me what im doing next year + i don’t have a clue.... + now this. + i think its weird u wont tell me where u r. afraid i might drop in and find something i dont want 2 c?

take a hike.

I feel like I’ve been dropped smack dead center into a beehive. The hum spinning around me is alive. Closing my eyes, I will myself to suck up some of the energy, but the empty ache gnaws inside and I still feel sluggish. I return to watching the senior-grade students jockey for position on the cold, clangy bleachers, grateful for my chair at the front of the hall, facing the crowd. It’s one of the perks of being on grad council.

After a quick glance at me, Warren rises from his chair beside mine and lifts a warehouse-store-sized pickle jar over his head. The glossy, multicolored beads that have been handed down to us from last year’s grad class slide across the smooth inner surface. The hum in the gymnasium slowly fades away.

“Fellow grads,” Warren croons in that accomplished radio-announcer voice of his. I swear it’s that delivery that got him elected president in the first place. It certainly wasn’t his brains. Okay, maybe he’s got some charm, and he’s not hard to look at, but is that any reason to elect him president?

“It’s that time of year,” he continues, hypnotizing an entire grade with his seductive tones, “when the graduating class of Slippery Rock High plays...” He pauses, and in that moment you can feel the hum beginning to build again. “Gotcha!”

Bedlam erupts. I’m tempted to cover my ears. The cheering, wolf whistles and stomping of boots on metal bleachers is deafening.

It’s not so much that I resent Warren being president. He does an adequate job. What I resent is that by coming in second I’m slotted into the position of secretary, not vice-president. How lame is that? And aren’t secretaries now called executive administrative assistants or something? Like, what year is this anyway?

“I’m sure you all know the rules of the game,” Warren continues when the uproar begins to subside, “but I’ll
review them, just to be sure we’re in sync.” He taps the side of the jar. “These beads have been passed down from many years of grad classes that have come before us. Today we’ll each receive one as well as a classmate’s name, someone else who is playing the game. We have hemp available, or you can string your bead on your favorite chain or whatever. But you must wear it somewhere on your body from now until you’re tagged.”

I feel an elbow jab. I turn to Paige, one of the five grad council members-at-large, sitting next to me. Member-at-large. Another equally stupid term, and there’s nothing
large
about Paige.

“We’re a team, right, Katie?” she whispers. “You promise?”

I shrug and turn my attention back to Warren. Truth is, I’ve always liked to play games by the rules, but Paige will do anything to win.

Another elbow jab. “Katie!” Paige whispers.

“Okay already!” A little knot of worry briefly nudges aside the empty ache. I figure I’m the only person here who’s not into this stupid game. We all know what has happened in past years, how things got right out of hand. That’s why we’re meeting at the community center and not in the school. “Gotcha” has been officially banned as a grad activity, making it that much more attractive. We’ve had a record number of grads signing up to play this year. I doubt any of them felt pressured to play, like I do. I tried talking the grad council into scrapping the whole thing, but they wouldn’t go for it,
and I knew I wouldn’t get any support from the rest of the class.

“The name you’ll be given today,” Warren says, “is the name of your victim, the person whose bead you must capture, which you do by tagging that person. When you capture a bead successfully, you string it next to your own and take the name of that person’s victim. If the person you tag already has more than one bead, you relieve that person of all of them. If you get tagged, you turn your bead or beads over to the person who tagged you and you are officially out of the game.”

We all know exactly how the game is played, but we listen anyway.

“And remember,” he cautions, “that you may not tag a person and take their bead while they are in the school or anywhere on the school grounds. As well, no bead can be taken from a person who is linking arms with another person who is still officially in the game.” Warren pauses, probably trying to think of more rules. Not coming up with any, he asks, “Are there any questions?”

“How much cash does the winner get?” Tyson Remmer asks.

Under-the-breath comments ripple across the bleachers. Tyson is the student who needs the money least of all, and not because he has rich parents or an honest job.

“Ten dollars has been received from each of you,” Warren answers, “bringing the pot to two thousand, one hundred and twenty dollars this year. That is an all-time high and
should ease the burden of college tuition for someone. Or maybe it’ll be a down payment on a car? Someone might even have a debt or two to pay off.” He winks at no one in particular and I swear I hear the entire female half of the class draw in a breath. “And those, my friends, are the rules. The game begins in exactly,” he glances at the clock on the wall, “one hour. And if there are no more questions...” He scans the faces in the bleachers. “Then come on down and get your bead!”

This is where Warren’s incompetence becomes evident. Instead of organizing a proper queue, he does his stupid game-show imitation and a stampede of grade twelve students descends the bleachers and elbows and shoves to get close to “the pres” who holds out the jar of beads. I stand beside him, clutching a knitted ski toque that contains our names, each one on a folded scrap of paper. Paige holds out lengths of hemp for anyone who wants one.

I suspect that in other years, when the grad council teacher rep helped out, this whole bead/name distribution thing would be run somewhat differently, but Mrs. Barter not only refused to assist us; she wouldn’t give us any advice, either.

It’s chaotic, but eventually each person has a bead, a name and some have a length of hemp. Everyone but those of us on council leaves the community center in small groups. There are seven beads and seven names left.

Warren extends the jar to me first. “That went well, don’t you think?” he asks.

I dip my hand in and pull out a turquoise bead. Then I draw one of the remaining pieces of folded paper from the toque. I glance at the name—force myself to keep a poker face—and shove both into my pocket. “Yeah, it went fine,” I say.

“You were amazing, Warren,” Paige gushes, reaching into the jar for her own bead. “Public speaking is like the scariest thing, but you make it look so easy.”

Warren flashes Paige a smile. He could be the poster boy for a tooth-whitening product, and the cleft in his chin is so perfect I wonder if he’s had cosmetic surgery. Paige’s skin turns a flattering shade of pink.